Page 94 of Written in Scent

Alex watches the fireflies for a long moment before he speaks again, his voice carrying the same steadiness that seems to live in every part of him.

“That has always been my deepest belief,” he says. “I wanted our pack to wait for the one omega whose scent would feel like home to every single one of us. Not just attraction or convenience. Something that settled right here.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I wanted the kind of match that made all four of us feel complete at the same time.”

I stay very still, listening as the golden lights continue their dance around us. His next words come even softer.

“Your bright strawberry and peach note cut straight through the fall air and hit me somewhere I wasn’t prepared for. I watched you crouched in the grass studying the ground and everything in me went still. I chose not to tell the others right away. I needed to be completely sure before I brought that kind of hope into our house.”

His large hand finds mine on the blanket and covers it completely, thumb brushing slow circles across my knuckles. The warm cedarwood and heat of his scent wraps around me, grounding and safe.

He turns his head toward me, pale gray eyes reflecting tiny points of gold. “Tell me about before Rosewood. What was it like growing up with beta parents? Did it feel different, knowing you were an omega in a house without any of the instincts?”

The question lands kindly, without demand. I look down at our joined hands and find the words easier than I expected.

“It felt… quiet,” I admit. “My parents are wonderful, but they never understood the pull I felt sometimes. I grew up with no pack dynamics or scent conversations at the dinner table. I watched other omegas talk about their future packs like it was the most natural thing in the world, and it always made me feel a little separate. I was afraid that if I let a pack in, it would dim the part of me that needs solitude and focus and insects and poetry. I worried it would make me smaller.”

I take a breath and meet his eyes. This is the first time I’ve said the next part out loud.

“But I’m starting to see that maybe a pack could make me stronger instead. Not by taking anything away, but by giving me a safe place to land. A place where I don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Alex’s thumb stills on my knuckle for a moment, then resumes its gentle rhythm. His scent deepens around us, peppery and protective, and I don’t feel the urge to pull away from the feeling. I simply let it surround me.

We sit in comfortable silence for a while longer, the fireflies pulsing around us like a living constellation. Eventually Alex gives my hand one final gentle squeeze and stands, pulling me up with him.

“Before we head back,” he says, his voice betraying a hint of nerves that surprises me, “I want to ask you something. There’s a lacrosse scrimmage this weekend. I’d like you to sit with the pack. With all of us. And after the game there’s a cookout with the team. It would mean a great deal to have you there beside us.”

The invitation lands with a sense of formality, carrying the weight of what it means for the captain of the team to bring an omega into that public space. Yet there’s no pressure in his tone, only open hope.

He continues before I can respond. “There’s no rush and no expectation. The place beside us is simply open whenever you’re ready. Whether that’s this weekend or weeks from now or even longer. The choice is yours, Elodie. Always.”

I nod, unable to speak for a moment as the words flutter fervently in my chest.

We begin the walk back across the meadow toward the car. Fireflies continue their golden dance, brushing against our ankles and lighting the grass in fleeting sparks.

Alex’s cedarwood and pepper scent wraps around me, reassuring in the cool night air. I lean gently into his side as we walk. For one heartbeat he rests his chin lightly on top of my hair, the simple contact speaking more than words ever could.

He stops then, turning me toward him with careful hands. One palm cups the side of my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone as if memorizing it. His pale gray eyes hold mine in the soft glow, and everything else fades.

Slowly, so slowly, he leans down.

The first brush of his lips is unhurried, a question and an answer all at once. I rise onto my toes to meet him, and the kiss deepens without urgency, a gentle exploration of breath and the faint scrape of his stubble against my skin. His other hand sits at the small of my back, drawing me closer but never demanding.

The taste of him is dark cedar and heat, and for long, perfect moments the only thing in the world is the rhythm of his mouth on mine and the fireflies still dancing around our ankles.

When we finally part, both of us a little breathless, he rests his forehead against mine for one more heartbeat before guiding me the last few steps to the car.

The idea of sitting in the stands with the Whitmore name across the back of a jersey doesn’t feel like losing myself at all anymore. It feels like being seen.

Sophie walks beside me toward the stadium, her arm looped through mine as the evening air turns crisp around us. The fall chill carries the distant roar of the growing crowd and the sharp scent of fresh cut grass under the bright stadium lights. She has been buzzing with excitement ever since I told her I was coming tonight.

“I still can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” she says, squeezing my arm. “My shy little entomology nerd is about to sit in the front row with the entire Whitmore pack. I’m so proud of you!”

I laugh at her endearment, affection spreading through my chest. “It still feels a little surreal.”

Sophie glances at me. “I’m meeting some friends from my sociology course near the main gates. I told them I’d save them seats. But I’ll walk you all the way to the family section first.”

We reach the entrance to the reserved family seating area a few minutes later. Sophie pulls me into a quick, tight hug, her honey and lavender scent wrapping around me like comfort. “Have the best time,” she whispers. “Text me if you need anything. Or if you just want to squeal later.”

She gives me one last encouraging smile and heads off toward her friends, leaving me to walk the final stretch alone.